When her father walked her to the altar, she was seventeen years old and in love. But she was also intelligent enough to be aware of the carping criticism that followed in her wake.
“He’s only marrying her because…”
“I give it six months…”
That would, she thought wryly, have to be his mother.
But they married anyway, and set out to make the best of life together.
One bright summer morning, they awoke with the birds and smiled to be together.
“Happy anniversary, love.”
He took her hand, and kissed her cheek.
“Happy fiftieth anniversary.”